Hell and Highwater
by ReluctantSlashFan
Summary: "Daryl spent his entire life getting left behind by Merle." (AKA The one where Daryl wrecks his bike, and spends the entire walk home reflecting on his past).


_This is my first forray into The Walking Dead fandom. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing, kinda haven't finished the series yet (I am slowly working my way through), so if anything is out of whack I apologize._

_This was beta'd by KarouYamisaki and Spiritfire47. They're awesome and helped me keep this relatively canon and the characters in character (which is the biggest thing I care about). Thank you so much and here's hoping you two can help me in the future._

_So, thanks for reading, I don't own any of these characters or the show, and I hope y'all enjoy this._

_Bye!_

* * *

When Daryl was eight, he'd gotten pneumonia. Like most cases, it started as a harmless cold, but living out in The Sticks with a father who didn't care much for his kids' health, and a brother who spent a lot of time away from home, it's not that surprising his cold had taken a turn for the worse.

He didn't really remember being sick, but the vague memories Daryl did have consisted of fevered dreams of his mother burning to death and his father screaming at him to get up and _do_ something.

While Daryl's old man didn't give a rat's ass about his health, Merle at least tried to help his brother get better. He stole some medication from a nearby clinic, forced fluids and food into his brother, and tried to keep their father away from his little brother. Merle may have been a nasty son of a bitch, but at least he took care of Daryl.

Eventually, after nearly dying twice, Daryl kicked the pneumonia, and was outside running around like nothing had happened. Two weeks later Merle left home, leaving his little brother alone with their father. It wasn't the first time someone abandoned Daryl; and it sure as shit wouldn't be the last.

* * *

It's not like Daryl hadn't wrecked his bike before. When he had been sixteen, he hit a patch of black ice, crashed into a tree. He broke his leg in three places, fucked up his eye, and totaled his bike. Merle hadn't been happy about the accident, their father even less so (both for entirely different reasons), but Daryl, already used to this sort of thing, just shrugged off their bitching and moaning. He also got right back on a bike the moment his cast was removed.

This time, he doesn't have Merle there to drag him home. He doesn't have his old man wondering why he hadn't just done the family a favor and died. He doesn't have anyone.

He needed to clear his head, sort through the muddled mess his life had become, process what had happened to Merle, so he took his bike out. Carol and Rick had offered to go with him, but he didn't _want _their company. He _needs_ to be on his own for a bit. A part of him figures they're worried he isn't coming back, which is a load of bullshit on their part. He's made it this far with his impromptu family, he's not about to abandon them now.

He's not Merle.

The thought brings him crashing back to reality. Merle's barely been dead two days and he's already speaking ill of him. What the hell kind of brother does that make him?

"_A shit one if ya ask me." _The sudden voice, so loud and clear Daryl almost believes Merle is sitting behind him (not that his brother would _ever_ ride in the 'bitch' seat), startles the hunter. His eyes dart around, eyebrows furrowed, but he's only surrounded by forest and open air. There isn't a walker, or anything for that matter, in sight.

He looks ahead, wondering if this is what Rick felt like when he kept seeing Lori everywhere, only to squeeze the handbrake, but he still slams his bike into a guardrail.

* * *

Daryl spent his entire life getting left behind by Merle. When they were kids, Merle spent most of his time in juvie, getting high with his friends, or otherwise spending his nights out of the house before ditching Daryl altogether.

As adults, and before the shit storm the world became, Merle would disappear for days on end. Sometimes he'd tell Daryl where he was going, but usually he just grunted, "Going out." It became a regular thing that Daryl just didn't question it.

After the walker outbreak, they tried to stay together, but Merle's belligerent attitude didn't set well with the group (the same group they had intended to rob. It's funny how plans changed). While Daryl didn't blame Rick for handcuffing his brother to a roof, it still took a while for him to get passed what the ex-cop did.

Daryl didn't _know_ Rick Grimes at the time, barely trusted him, while Merle had been his brother; _his _flesh and blood, the one person who had been there (when he happened to be around) for him. When Daryl and the others found Merle's hand, missing the body it had been originally attached to, that had been one of the worst moments of his life.

When he realized his brother wasn't dead, having opted to saw his hand off then stick around, it bothered Daryl that Merle decided not to look for him, but leaving his family behind was what the elder Dixon did, and there wasn't much Daryl could do about that.

* * *

"_Wake up, baby brother."_

Daryl snorts awake, face down in the dirt, a tree limb pressing into his left cheek. His left arm is trapped under his body, his right resting above his head. He blinks twice, waiting for his eyesight to shift back into focus, before slowly lifting his head. Sharp, white pain drills into his head and down his neck, screwing up his vision again, and he lays back down.

He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing through the pain. He's reminded of the time Andrea shot him, just hours after he fell off a horse and impaled himself with one of his crossbow bolts. But this time, despite the blinding pain, Daryl knows he hasn't been shot.

Once the pain has ebbed away, he opens his eyes and attempts to sit up again. He pushes himself to his knees, the movement jostling his right side. He breathes through the aches and pains radiating through his body, reminding himself that he has had worse. He lets his eyes scan the area surrounding him, looking for any potential threats. His vision shifts in and out of focus, dizziness and nausea sweeping through his body.

He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to throw up. Letting it out, he hangs his head, resting his arms on his thighs. Slowly, too slowly for his liking, the nausea passes, but he still feels a little dizzy and the pain is becoming an ever-present nuisance he just can't shut up.

A sudden groan catches his attention, coming from somewhere to his left, followed by shuffling feet. Daryl turns his head to see a walker wandering a good twenty yards away, no doubt attracted to the blood he's lost, but it has yet to see him.

"_Daryl, get up."_ A new voice, this one sounding a bit like Rick, startles him. He looks around, wondering if he's going to start seeing his friend like he saw Merle, but he's still very much alone in the woods. He also knows, as crazy as it sounds, that the phantom Rick is right. He has to get the hell up before that walker sees him.

With some difficulty, he shoves himself to his feet. His balance wavers, but pure perseverance keeps him standing. He looks around for his crossbow, but he must've lost it when he crashed his bike (something else he cannot seem to find). He does have his knife, still in its sheathed attached to his leg, and it had been sheer luck that he hadn't stabbed himself with it.

Keeping his hand near his knife, Daryl quietly backs away from the Walker, ignoring how badly his right leg is shaking. It's not broken, he'd know if he broke it, but it's not exactly fit to be walked on either. Hershel would throw a fit, as would Carol and possibly Rick, but there's no way Daryl is going to stay sitting, waiting for a search party that may never find him.

He narrowly manages to escape the walker, stumbling over his feet as he turns to face forward. He moved as quickly, and as quietly, as he can in the opposite direction, keeping one hand tightly wrapped around his Bowie. He drapes his free arm around his torso, trying to protect his cracked ribs, and limps onward. He's not even sure if he's going in the right direction, won't know until he's found the road, and he hates that feeling. He needs to know where he is, always had, more so since the end of the fucking world. Getting lost is just a one way ticket to becoming a walker's breakfast.

He needs to find the road fast.

* * *

Daryl didn't have many friends growing up. In fact, Merle may have been his _only_ friend (when he was around). Daryl didn't _like_ the kids in his class (he hadn't liked many people growing up) and the longer he sat around them, the worse his displeasure got until he borderline hated them.

He wasn't a stupid kid in school. He'd always been good at math and he liked history, but the kids made school unbearable. He used to get picked on, up until he busted a kid's nose for calling him 'Pond Scum.' After that, the other kids collectively decided to avoid him, and Daryl preferred it that way.

He probably could have graduated, but after spending damn near seventeen years with _sheep_ he had to get the fuck out of that school. Merle hadn't reacted when Daryl told him he dropped out, save for a shrug and an impassive, "Us Dixons don't need no school baby brother."

Rick, Carol, and the others were Daryl's firsthand experience with friends outside of his brother and the guys Merle decided to hang around with. And, since getting high with tweakers got old after a while, he didn't spend _that_ much time around Merle's 'friends.'

He had been cautious around Rick and the others at first. He didn't know them, he didn't trust them, and he sure as shit doubted they'd throw their lives down for his. However his suspicions were driven straight into the ground. They'd saved him just as much as he saved them, proving that Daryl didn't need _just_ Merle in his life.

In a way, it's funny that he'd become a cop's best friend, his relationship, before the outbreak, with law enforcement usually consisting of his Miranda Rights. Though, his friendship with Carol wasn't nearly as surprising, both bonding over similar life experiences in their pasts; a past he's still not comfortable with sharing with anyone.

* * *

"Fuck." Daryl stumbles over his feet latching onto a nearby tree. He can feel the bark biting into his palm, and he uses that to ground him. The pain in his head is a dull throb now, but his side is on fire and he feels like vomiting again.

"_You should sit down,"_ Phantom Rick suggests, but Daryl can't sit down. He has to keep moving, has to get closer to the road, and pussyfooting around isn't going to get him any closer to his goal. "_It ain't, it's gonna help you get your strength back." _Figures, even in Daryl's head Rick watches his language, it's almost hilarious.

"Fuck off," Daryl grumbles letting the tree go and continuing to walk.

At least when Phantom Merle had been around he had kept Daryl going, hadn't suggested some stupid shit like sitting down and resting. Had the real Rick been here, he'd have manhandled the hunter into sitting down, regardless of the glare or muttered, empty threats directed at him, but he isn't there and no amount of crazy ass voices is going to change that.

So, he keeps walking. The Dixon stubbornness is good for many things, pushing on despite being injured among them. He can't be _that_ far from home, he'll be able to rest the moment he makes it back to the prison.

"_A bit optimistic there ain't ya, baby brother,"_ Merle whispers in his ear. "_If ya don' hurry, ya might just end up like me."_

Daryl isn't afraid to die. Even before the outbreak, he had known he probably wasn't going to live past forty. But that didn't mean he wanted to be one of _them. _The worst thing that could happen to him is becoming a walker. A bullet to the brain is a better alternative than _that_, but at the same time he'd try to avoid making his friends do it. They didn't need his death on their conscience.

"_Wouldn't want Officer Friendly to be responsible for __**two**__ Dixon deaths now would we?"_ Merle hisses in his ear and Daryl's eyebrows furrow, his jaw clenching.

He knew Merle, the _real_ Merle, made his own decisions, chose to go after The Governor on his own. Rick had nothing to do with his brother's death. The only person who needs to pay is that one-eyed son of a bitch who shot Merle.

"_If ya say so."_

"Shut up," Daryl grunts rubbing at his aching forehead. Blood stains his hand, left over from his still oozing wound, and he wipes it on his jeans. This is not happening again. He is not going to listen to his brother, his _hallucination_, try to talk him into hurting his friend. Too much has happened between him and Rick for Daryl to even _think_ about betraying the man. And Rick may not have liked Merle, but he respected Daryl enough to trust his judgment.

"_Brother, yer so far up that man's ass, yer practically sharing the same brain."_

Wanting to roll his eyes, but knowing he'd probably pass out from the effort, Daryl shoves his brother's voice to the back of his head and continues on.

* * *

Merle once told him Dixons were good for two things: drinking and fighting. To which Daryl asked, "Does taking drugs fit into that category, too?" His brother cuffed in the back of the head for that comment.

"Don' be smart, little brother." Merle went on to talk about a few other things, but Daryl hadn't been listening, too busy tracking the deer barely concealed behind some bushes. His brother's speech came to a screeching halt when Daryl sent a bolt straight through its heart.

"Not bad."

It had been his Uncle Jess who taught Daryl how to survive in the woods (after Daryl told him about his week alone). His brother used to promise to take him, used to say he needed to learn something useful, that 'book learning' wasn't going to do him much good in the real world (and in a way Merle was right), but Daryl knew he shouldn't rely on Merle and didn't put too much stock in his brother's promises.

Jess, however, started his training with knives, slowly moving up to guns and crossbows; until they were spending their weekends hunting in the woods. His uncle told him that Merle could handle a rifle like it was another appendage, having learned to shoot from the older man when he was eight. Daryl learned pretty quickly, while he could handle a rifle well enough his weapon of choice was the crossbow. He took to the weapon like he had been born to use it, surpassing even his brother, and Merle had looked impressed, albeit begrudgingly, when he saw his brother use the weapon a few years later.

It's with those skills, that Daryl stabbed his father. It hadn't been a fatal wound, but it had been enough for his old man to kick him out. He'd learn a few months later that his dad had gotten arrested again.

Daryl wouldn't see his dad again until after the outbreak and it's a very brief reunion; ending with a bullet to his dad's head. Daryl felt a deep-seated satisfaction knowing the son of a bitch got what he deserved.

* * *

Another dizzy spell nearly knocks him to the ground, and he knows he has to stop. It's like his own body is fighting against him, and that's just one betrayal too many for Daryl. He dares not sit down, he has a feeling he wouldn't get back up, but he does lean against a tree, resting his head against the bark, breathing deeply through his nose.

If Merle were here, he'd tell Daryl to stop being a pussy. If Rick were here, he'd be hovering and wanting to know if there was anything he could get the hunter. Daryl's not sure which one he'd choose if given the chance, but he kind of really wants the company.

That's something he never actually thought he'd ever want: company. It's like in the past year, his entire world did a complete 360, and he has the outbreak to thank (or _not_ he hasn't decided yet). So many things have changed, so much his head is still spinning and sometimes he doesn't know which way is up anymore.

During rare moments, usually when he's sitting in his cell, he thinks he's going to wake up in the back of his pickup truck and find that nothing has changed at all. That he and Merle are still travelling around, hopping from one town to the next, trying to evade the law. Maybe in that life Rick would have arrested Daryl instead of thanking him for keeping the group together and taking care of his kids while he had his breakdown.

A snarl catches his attention, his head jerking away from the tree. He has his knife unsheathed before he can even think about it, his eyes darting around looking for whatever made that noise. It takes less than a minute to find the walker, much bigger than the last one, stalking towards him.

Its shoulder hits a tree but it hardly notices, its eyes locked on Daryl. He grips his knife tighter, straightening up as best as he can wishing he had his bow. When the walker is close enough, he swings his knife at it, slicing into its face.

He takes a step back when it lunges at him, instinctually kicking it in the chest, barely keeping himself standing when hot pain surges through his leg. He ignores the pain, bringing the knife down and sinking it into the walker's head. It goes down, Daryl following it, dropping to his knees.

He's breathing heavily, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. His fingers twitch against his thighs, his hair falling into his face. He pulls himself together quickly, yanking his knife from the Walker's head, and pushes himself to his feet. Ignoring the pain radiating up and down his body he re-sheathes his knife and starts walking again.

* * *

When Daryl was nineteen, he woke up in a hospital with an aching stomach and a nasty taste in his mouth. He doesn't quite remember what had happened the night before, but the nurse told him his brother had dropped him off around three-thirty. She hadn't seemed happy about that, asking him if he had anyone else she could call.

When he shook his head, she gave him a sympathetic smile before heading towards the door. He stopped her, calling her back, and when she turned he asked, "What happened?"

"Someone slipped something into your drink, sweetie," the nurse replied looking as if she wanted touch him, probably run her fingers through his hair or some shit. If she tried Daryl was certain he'd have jerked away from her, even with the I.V. in his arm, and it must have shown on his face because she didn't step any closer. "We had to pump your stomach."

"Where's my brother?" He recalled the nurse mentioning Merle brought him here. Did he stay the night? Had he returned home to shower? Had he even bothered to stay longer than to fill out the paperwork? And what name were they using this week?

Something dark flickered across the woman's face, but her voice was soft when she said, "He said he was going to move the car, but he hasn't returned." She fiddled with Daryl's blankets, giving him a gentle smile. "I'm sure he'll be back soon."

It's a lie and she knew Daryl could tell, but he didn't call her on it. Instead he turned over, putting his back to her, glaring at the wall. The nurse lingered in the entryway for another moment before walking out.

The most surprising thing about all this was Daryl wasn't even surprised anymore.

* * *

It's not Daryl's idea to take a break. His body just sort of gives up and he falls to the ground, his legs deciding they have held him up long enough. The impact with the dirt jostles his injured side and head, but he holds back a hiss of pain, breathing through it. Even alone, he refuses to show any weakness. He does lean against a tree, knowing he has to get up, but uncertain if he'd even be able to. Clearly, the Dixon stubbornness doesn't extend to exhausted limbs.

"_Just take some time."_ Rick's calm voice is so close to him that Daryl has to remind himself he is alone in the woods. _"You'll be fine."_

"Be a lot simpler if these damn walkers weren't around," Daryl mutters as his eyes slip closed on their own accord. He doesn't know why he keeps acknowledging the voices. They aren't real, neither Rick nor Merle are anywhere near him, one back at the prison, the other dead. It's not even like the voices are helping any, they're mostly just annoying him.

He's not exactly sure if he falls asleep or passes out, but the next thing he knows he's jerking awake to the sound of rustling leaves. He quickly sits up, reaching for his knife, expecting to see a walker, but his sharp eyes settle on a deer standing a few feet from him. It's a quiet moment both staring at each other, neither moving before the deer turns and runs away.

* * *

Merle never hit Daryl, at least not like their old man. He never took a belt to his brother's back, never left the younger man lying on the ground covered in blood with boot shaped bruises all over his body. That's not to say he never got rough. Merle's favorite form of punishment was cuffing the back of his brother's head hard enough to leave Daryl's ears ringing. Sometimes he even grabbed the back of his neck, dirty nails digging into the younger man's flesh and dragged him away. One time he backhanded Daryl so hard he nearly broke the younger guy's nose before storming out.

Merle never apologized, not verbally at least, but sometimes Daryl would find a new knife sitting on his truck's dashboard or some part he had needed for his bow. Small things, anything that would ensure Merle didn't have to actually say the words.

The only time Merle truly got carried away, he had been high on meth. The details were still sketchy, even after all these years, but Daryl vaguely remembered they had an argument beforehand.

He made an offhanded comment about Merle's drug use, said he hated what his brother was doing to himself. It went on from there, but Daryl couldn't tell anyone what else was said. All he knew was that he woke up at the bottom of the stairs, several hours later, with a dislocated shoulder, a cracked tooth, and his t-shirt covered in blood.

If he's being honest, and the hour he spent in the library (getting shifty eyed looks from the other patrons) researching meth meant anything, he had gotten off lucky. Merle could have killed him. And yet he still didn't apologize.

Sometimes Daryl wondered if his brother was even capable of saying sorry.

* * *

After another twenty minutes or so of stumbling through the woods, he finally finds the road. Trying to take in his bearings, find something helpful so he can start walking in the right direction. Daryl has to lean forward as a fresh bout of nausea rolls through him. He places his left hand on his knee, tightly wrapping his right arm around his ribs, and breathes deeply.

After a beat, he pulls himself together, straightening up, and let his eyes scan the area. It takes a few moments, his vision blurring around the edges again, but he's able to figure out which way he needs to go. He starts walking, pulling his right arm a bit tighter around himself, ignoring the small voice telling him to take a few minutes. He doesn't _have_ a few minutes; he needs to get back now.

He hates being injured. Injuries, no matter how small, can become a problem and the constant stopping and resting isn't going to get him back to the prison any sooner. At the same time, if he keeps going the way he has been there is a good chance he'll pass out near a possible threat. There are only so many close calls, and Daryl doubts he'll get away with a gnawed boot a second time.

He's hardly a half a mile down the road, when his legs give out on him again. He pitches forward, his hands just barely catching him, stopping his face from meeting the pavement. His heart hammers against his ribcage, his breath hitches in his chest. He turns over onto his back throwing one arm over his face, the other resting on his stomach, fingers twitching again.

He's not sure how long he lies there, probably no longer than five minutes, but he eventually sits up. Gathering his legs beneath him, he shoves himself to his feet and staggers on.

* * *

Merle told him once that he looked like their mama. He'd been steadily working his way through a twenty-four pack of Bud, testing his liver in ways that really shouldn't be tested, and had he been sober he wouldn't have said anything. He also said that Daryl needed to cut his hair soon otherwise he'd have to start calling him Darlina, but the younger Dixon had heard the nickname so many times it hardly phased him anymore.

Daryl barely remembered his mother on most days, but sometimes small things would come back to him. She used to smell like cigarettes and whiskey, with a hint of some nasty smelling perfume. Her clothes were always too tight, her makeup usually overdone, and she liked to flirt with the cashiers at the grocery store. She also had this annoying habit of leaving Daryl and Merle with the patrons at the bar when she hooked up with random truckers.

He'd been three months shy of his fifth birthday when she died, hardly old enough to tie his shoelaces, barely had the training wheels off his bike a month. When their Uncle Jess told Merle, hours after the firefighters had dispersed and the two boys had been dropped off at his house, Merle promptly shoved his brother and ran away.

Daryl wanted to follow his brother, he wanted to know why Merle had pushed him, but Jess stopped him, said he'd go after Merle and told Daryl to stay on the porch. He'd find out later that his brother blamed him for their mother's death. He said that if Daryl had just stayed home, if he hadn't been 'screwing around' with the neighborhood kids, then their mother would still be alive. At four, Daryl believed his brother.

Sometimes he still believed his brother.

* * *

Something wet drips onto his face bringing him back to consciousness. Daryl blinks awake, a few more drops landing on his cheek. He doesn't remember passing out, but he knows he wouldn't randomly fall asleep on the side of the road. The sky, already gray and threatening rain for the past few days, has finally made good on its threat. And that's just his fucking luck, adding rain on top of everything else that has gone to shit today.

He sits up, eyes darting around, looking for walkers, trying to ignore the way the rain is picking up. He didn't feel remotely better, in fact he feels worse, but he still gets back up, albeit a little slower than the last few times.

To keep himself moving, he starts thinking about the last conversation he had with his brother. He hadn't been lying, when he said he wanted his brother back. Before the apocalypse, before Merle went off to drink the Kool-Aid in Woodbury and become one of The Governor's people, before any of this shit, it had been Daryl and Merle against the world. Their relationship wasn't perfect, they fought more than anything, but they had each other. And Daryl had wanted _that_ back, he had wanted Merle to just be Merle again.

Of course, Daryl wants a lot of things. He wants Judith and Carl and, shit, even Beth (who's barely an adult) to have a normal life. He wouldn't mind seeing Glenn and Maggie get hitched, maybe have a few rugrats of their own. He wants Rick and Carol to be okay. He wants Sophia, Dale, T-Dog, hell, even Lori (who hadn't been his biggest fan) to come back. He wants his brother to be alive.

But he learned at a young age, you can't always get what you want. Hopes and dreams are for the innocent, and Daryl hasn't been innocent for quite some time; if he had ever been innocent. Life is all about putting one foot in front of the other, preparing for whatever shit is thrown at you and adapting when you need to. Only fools believe in happy endings.

The rain comes down harder, thick drops of water slamming against Daryl's body, soaking his clothes and plastering his hair to his head. He keeps going, crossing his arms tightly against his body, keeping his head down but his eyes peeled for any walkers.

Merle told him he's changed, and maybe he has. Maybe incorporating himself into the lives of his friends, allowing them to get to know him, even if it's at his own pace, is what changed him. Or maybe it's the fact that he didn't have Merle around anymore, didn't have someone barking orders at him, thinking for him. Maybe this is how he's supposed to be, but he let his brother's influence shape him into something he's not.

"_Ya had every opportunity to leave, little brother,"_ Merle's voice snarls. "_Don' put yer crap on me."_

And that's the thing, he doesn't blame Merle. He _can't_ blame him; not really. Fake or not, his brother isn't wrong. Daryl could have left, could have gone off on his own, abandoned Merle like _he_ always abandoned _him_. He already knows he can take care of himself, his uncle Jess making sure he knew how to survive, and even Merle instilled a few life lessons while they were travelling together.

He could have broken away from Merle anytime. He could have left the group and gone off looking for his brother on his own. He could have done all of that, but he didn't. No matter how many times he distanced himself from the others, how much he said he didn't need help, how much he pretended he wasn't a part of the group, he still never left.

The problem is he's afraid to be alone. It seems years of neglect fucked him up a lot more than his father slapping him around. At least when his dad was hitting him, he was paying attention to him.

The sad part about Daryl's fear of abandonment is, if Rick and the others were to tell him to go, he'd do it. No questions asked; no arguments. He'd pack his shit and leave because no matter how much he doesn't _want_ to be alone, he'd rather not become a burden. It's why he always does so much for the group, why he doesn't ask for help, why he can be so standoffish sometimes. The less attention he draws to himself, the less likely Rick, Carol, or the others are going to tell him to go away. He doubts they will, but he can't read their minds. He doesn't know what they think of him, and truthfully he doesn't _want_ to know, but at the same time he really does.

He's way too fucked up even for the apocalypse.

* * *

Neither Merle nor Daryl was planned. Merle had been a product of too many beers and a broken, convenience store condom while Daryl wasn't even sure if Will Dixon was his father. He recalled Merle muttering something about a man who used to come around a lot when he was a kid, _way_ before Daryl had been born, but their dad had beat the shit out of the guy one night and they never saw him again.

"Then Mom had you," Merle grunted pointing his syringe at Daryl. "Be funny if that sumbitch is your daddy." He chuckled darkly before sliding the needle into his vein.

Daryl thought about his brother's offhanded comment for a while after that. He wondered if the mystery man really _was _his father. Would his life have been any different if he hadn't been raised by Will Dixon? Would it have been any worse? In the end he decided he really didn't give a rat's ass. One deadbeat dad was enough for him.

* * *

He's so tired, so very, very tired, and wants nothing more than to sit down and never get back up. But he pushes on, keeps moving, and does what he does best: survives. It's what's ultimately going to get him through Merle's death, like it got him through so many others since the outbreak. Keep moving, keep living, stay sane. Though, one could argue that no one in their group is completely sane.

He about cries when he sees the prison, and he speeds up just a little. He's freezing, injured, and just wants to lie down in his cell for the next week or so. He'll even endure Rick's hovering, Carol's fussing, and Hershel's demands that he stay in bed. He'll endure anything just as long as he can go home.

The walker comes out of nowhere, like most of those assholes are prone to do, knocking him to the ground. He reaches for his knife, but his hands are pinned and he can smell the thing's putrid breath as it bends down to take a chunk out of his neck.

Suddenly, a loud crack echoes from somewhere above Daryl, the walker jerking off of him and falling into a lifeless heap at his side. He's breathing heavily, each breath pulling on his ribs, and his head is spinning. A sudden shadow appears over him, Rick's face coming into view, and it takes everything Daryl has not to burst into tears like some bitch.

"You alright?" Rick asks offering the hunter a hand, Michonne lingering behind him holding a rifle.

"Yeah." Daryl takes the man's hand, clambering to his feet with the help. He's barely standing before his legs turn to jelly, Rick's grip on his arm the only thing keeping him standing.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" The ex-sheriff gives him a worried look, one hand lingering above his head, almost afraid to touch him.

"I ain't bit, if that's what yer asking," Daryl says quickly, resisting the urge to lean into the other man. He really doesn't want to show any weakness, but if he's forced to stay standing for another moment he's going to pitch forward into Rick, fuck trying to avoid showing weakness. "Wrecked my bike, need to go get it."

"Yeah, maybe later," Rick replies pulling one of Daryl's arms over his shoulder. He wraps the other around his waist and starts helping the slightly taller man towards the gate, Michonne trailing behind them. "You sure you're okay?"

He's not okay; he's pretty fucking far from okay. Merle's still dead. The Governor is still out there no doubt waiting for an opening to attack them and whether their group is ready is debatable. The walkers are still roaming free, still killing people, still making a damn nuisance of themselves. Everything is still fucked. But there's also one thing that's absolutely true:

"I ain't dead," Daryl answers with a small shrug and he hears Rick huff in his ear.

"No, you're not," he murmurs just as Maggie and Glenn open the gate allowing them back into the confines of their home. Daryl doesn't know what'll happen tomorrow, next week, next month, but he knows right here, right now. He's still breathing, still kicking, and compared to the alternative, he's damn lucky to be on this end of the spectrum.


End file.
